


Survey

by yeaka



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Picard
Genre: M/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-04
Updated: 2020-09-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:40:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26277313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Emil gives Cristóbal a tactile checkup.
Relationships: Cristóbal Rios/Emil | La Sirena's Emergency Medical Hologram
Kudos: 7





	Survey

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

He’s a handsome specimen, the captain—Cristóbal Rios—the very man that Emil’s modeled after. That makes his compliment terribly vain, but the thought flitters through his holographic mind all the same. He’s as capable of complex thought and personal idiosyncrasies as any, more than some sentient species, and that allows him to appreciate the firm body underneath his busy hands. Cristóbal is more relaxed than usual, maybe because of the empty glass on the far table or the cigar dangling out the corner of his mouth. That’s the first habit Emil wishes he would drop. There are a number of them detrimental to both Cristóbal’s health and beauty. But Emil knows by now the futility of harping on those things, so he conducts his examination in silence. 

He trails eager fingertips along the sharp jut of Cristóbal’s hip bones and up across the hardened abdomen that remains as taut as ever: kept fit with practice. The workouts have been as good a distraction for Cristóbal’s mind as body—Emil keeps his mental health in check, though that hasn’t been fully sound since Emil’s first activation. His palms glide along Cristóbal’s pectorals, brushing over brown buds ever-so-slightly aroused by the cool air of _La Sirena’s_ makeshift sickbay. Cristóbal’s engaging eyes finally flicker up to Emil’s. 

He doesn’t say anything, but watches Emil’s face as Emil works—he smoothes over Cristóbal’s breast, noting every little dip and curve. His skin may as well be an active sensor. _Touching_ Cristóbal in his holographic body is a thousand times more enlightening than the tricorders of old. But Emil knows he’s using a tad _too_ much care. 

He leans down and lets his blunt fingernail rake through the hair on Cristóbal’s chest—just one more fascinating detail that makes him _real_.

“Find something you like?” Cristóbal dryly asks. One hand lifts to pluck the cigar from his mouth—he looks better without it. He could easily knock Emil’s arms away or deactivate him all together, but instead, Emil’s allowed to stroke beneath the dip of Cristóbal’s collarbone and enjoy the coarse scratch of dark hairs. Emil hairstyle is cleaner but the same colour as Cristóbal’s, his beard nearly identical, but _this_ is something he lacks—hair in other places. There’s a tangle of it just above Cristóbal’s trousers that isn’t matched on Emil’s body. There’s no need for it. In some ways, those tiny things, _biological_ differences, are fascinating. Emil would like to call it professional curiosity.

Maybe he’s just been activated one too many times. His program’s meant to be adaptive. Maybe it’s a mutation in his software, a corruption, that makes him _enjoy_ the intricate textures of Cristóbal’s human body. Emil rarely mentions that interest, because he knows it won’t get him anywhere. 

Cristóbal’s indulging him more than usual today. “Well, Doc?”

“Perfectly healthy.” Or at least, as healthy as Cristóbal could hope with all of his poor decisions. Emil does his best to compensate for those. He doesn’t take his hands off Cristóbal’s warm flesh, the jagged hairs and the soft skin underneath. In a way, he knows he’s lucky—his primary patient is cantankerous, but lovely. 

Something flickers through Cristóbal’s eyes—a thought Emil’s not programmed to translate. Cristóbal slowly drawls, “Are you going to keep feeling me up anyway?”

Emil could. Doctor’s orders. He could lie and say there’s a lump on Cristóbal’s inner thigh that he should really look at, examine up close and personal, prod and stroke and maybe even _taste_ —but none of that is in his program. A hologram can’t hold grudges, but he begrudgingly pulls his hands away just the same. He notes that Cristóbal’s nipples are slightly more pebbled than when the checkup began, his pupils a fraction dilated and his cheeks a faint pink. Heart rate and pulse accelerated. Emil doesn’t allow himself to process any more data on it. 

He suggests, “You might want to ask the Emergency Hospitality Hologram about that.”

The spell’s broken. Cristóbal snorts and mutters, “Deactivate the EMH.”


End file.
